


Package Delivery

by Hermit9



Category: Captain America (Movies), Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Birthday Smut, Chains, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Natasha has a plan, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Spreader Bars, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 18:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20376202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/pseuds/Hermit9
Summary: Signed, Sealed, Delivered, He's yours...(The one where Gwen asked for Captain America on a silver plater as a joke. She didn't expect Natasha to deliver.)





	Package Delivery

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the amazing [AnOddSock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnOddSock/pseuds/AnOddSock)
> 
> With many thanks to [JackassInACan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackassInACan) for rubber ducking this out with me and letting me steal all the good bits of dialogue along the way. If something makes you laugh, it's probably his.

The car had been an exercise in compromise. Steve had wanted American-built and either patriotic blue or classic black. Tony wanted German engineering in hot-rod red. They had settled for a Toyota, the same dirty slate colour as a failed seaside vacation. It had legroom and was boring enough to avoid notice, qualities which both came in handy when doing stake-outs with a super-soldier the approximate size of an entire football team.

Especially since said super-soldier was grinning like a kid and balancing a cardboard box on his knees, piled with street-vendor hotdogs, all fully loaded. Tony eyed the things with mild unease. It wasn’t the quantity, he was used to the way Steve would eat like a bottomless adolescent pit if he was allowed to. Tony simply couldn’t shake the idea of limited sanitation and his mind kept bouncing around the idea of diphtheria hiding amidst the sauerkraut and mustard.

Tony pushed his own seat as far back as it could go and settled his meal box on his lap: an overly engineered lacquering wood and brass hinged contraption with spring release latches. Pepper, or more probably someone Pepper hired, would get it filled at different restaurants in the city every week and leave it for Tony to take on his outings. It was a bit of a surprise every time, just enough of a gamble to whet his appetite. 

“Is that a bib?” Steve asked, craning his neck to catch a look. He wouldn’t have to if he allowed Tony to make him a box too. His could even be all red and blue and have star stickers on it.

“It certainly is. Essential part of eating mussels on the go,” he answered, making sure his tone remained light, breezy and confident. He also made sure to note the restaurant’s name on the business card tucked inside the box’s lid so that he could blacklist it utterly. What kind of imbecile figured mussels in a cream and vodka sauce, complete with a side of shoestrings fries and an empty bowl for shells, was a good option for what was meant to be a picnic. 

Still. No use in crying over spilled French cuisine and certainly no points to be won by asking Steve to trade. Nope. None at all. Tony tied the bib to his neck, making sure to tuck the edges into the collar, and dug into his food. It was good, which was the worst part of things. Perfectly cooked morsels of seafood, creamy sauce, just a hint of salt and some chives to keeps things lively. Steve snorted an ugly laugh next to him and inhaled his next processed meat monstrosity. 

“It’s starting,” Steve said. 

“I can see,” Tony answered while slurping sauce from a half shell. “I have eyes, you know?”

The bait cars were the polar opposite of the stake-out car. There had been no compromise there, only meticulously compiled statistics. Tony kept a stable of them, fine-tuned to specific neighbourhoods, in a variety of brands and colours. They were the cleanest, most desirable things on the street and he parked them in new places each outing. It was a personal challenge, to find suitable parking spaces that would afford a good view.

The net result was perfectly located, irresistible bait. Tony was tempted to make a comparison with kids and candy, or not so little kids and more colourful drugs, but that would have been crass, even for him. The goal, however, was not the petty car thieves. It was what came afterward, once the ridiculous alarms started blaring. 

“Up high, 10 o’clock,” said Steve.

“Also from behind us. We might be getting a double.”

“Don’t say it like that, you make it sound dirty.”

“Oh do I?” Getting a rise out of Steve was too easy, like shooting fish in a barrel and having JARVIS do the targeting. “And what do you know about dirty? Got some hidden depths to you, Rogers? Some secret war stories?”

“Shut up, Tony.” There was a twitch of the lips there, a ghost of a smile. Maybe even a blush. _That _was interesting. 

The thieves were good. It was a two person team: one on the lookout trying to act casual with his hands shoved into a large grey hoodie, while the other slipped a slim-jim through the window seal as smooth and easy as that tool was ever going to get in. They were good, but not quick enough. 

Watching the spider-people was always a matter of not blinking at the wrong moment. They were as quick as they were fun to watch, though sometimes Tony had to rely on colour schemes and AI-assisted instant-replays. Steve, of course, had perfect vision and didn’t need any help.

Hoodie went first, up a lamppost, arms stuck together and swinging like a pendulum coated with webbing. The spider that caught him leveraged his weight to swing himself around in a large arc, letting go after two full rotations. He flew across the street and out of Tony’s line of sight, probably up a fire escape.

“Oh, that was nice, but a bit of a missed opportunity there. Could have used some pylo to keep his momentum going, front tuck to roll towards the wall and then jump off again.”

“Pylo? Really? Still hanging out with that Queens kid?” Steve shook his head, an amused smile on his lips and no trace of blush left. 

“Peter made it to honorary Avenger. And, if you must know, I’ve been trying to get out of the dog house with his Aunt.”

“She’s still mad for Germany?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Tony looked back towards the street and realized the other thief had been stuck to the car. Not just stuck, displayed with his arm up in a mock victory stance, almost Rocky Balboa with less muscle and more man-made protein glop. 

“Are we taking points off for using the car or adding points for difficulty?" Tony asked. 

"It's Morales. He did that on purpose."

Tony hummed and considered. “Alright. A strong contender. Let’s see what the next showing has for us.” 

He turned the key and the motor shook to life with the expected boring and fuel-efficient lack of fuss it had been selected for. A buzzing chime that had nothing to do with mass-market Japanese engineering made him pause.

“Really? You brought your cell? Romance truly is dead.”

“You’re not my date, Tony. And duty calls. Got to go. Give me the final scores?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Want to tell me what you’re working on? Can’t be an assemble call, my line is dead silent.”

“That was Natasha—”

“Nope. Abort mission. I have never wanted to know anything less.”

“You did ask,” said Steve as he clasped Tony’s shoulder in a friendly squeeze, which only reminded Tony that he could probably snap his collarbone with a finger grip alone. Then Steve folded his empty hotdog box, neatly, and stepped out of the car, into an impossibly well timed yellow cab, and was gone.

Tony considered driving to his next location alone, out of stubbornness. But camping out in high crime areas alone was a lot less fun than camping out in high crime areas with a one-man army. Cameras were created for a reason. Good thing he’d planted a few near all of his bait cars. 

Tony turned toward the Tower and headed home. 

* * *

The building had been built in more industrious times, with cinder block walls and corrugated metal for the roof. It had been a factory once; the air still held a hint of raw cotton and cheap rusted steel. Material thickness provided the only isolation and so Steve could hear every sound outside: the rumble of cars, the rare clipped step of passers-by and the shuffling of street denizens. None of them came close or even paused to give the building a second glance. 

Steve didn’t blame them. He wouldn’t have either, present circumstances excluded. Small windows that nestled against the edge of the high ceilings broke the golden late daylight into lazy strips across the concrete floor. Steve could feel them on the bare skin of his back and flanks. A succession of glass focused warmth and its absence. The cold he felt was only a contrast, the ambient air still heavy with the trapped summer heat that radiated from the cinder blocks. It didn’t change the fact that the slow glide of the sun on his skin registered as strange torture, a fraction of a millimetre at the time. 

Steve realized that he had no idea how long, exactly, he had been standing in that place. 

The chains clinked and chimed when he tried to turn, but they were solid and didn’t allow for that much movement. Steve flexed his fingers, sending sluggish blood up to his extended arms, well above his head. He could rotate his wrists partially, but the cuffs were reinforced and wide enough that he couldn’t open them. The steel and titanium bar that separated them was extra insurance. 

He stretched, rising up on tiptoes to release the almost-but-not-quite too much of the strain on his shoulders. He worked methodically, rolling his head to stretch the neck muscles, then his shoulders as much as he could. The movement dislodged some of the beading sweat, running down his spine in rivulets. Eventually, low on his hips, the sweat was being wicked by the waistband of his jeans, but Steve was regretting the absence of more cotton to help in the effort. Hips, knees, ankles, then shifting his weight from one leg to the other and letting the rig hold the weight of his arms. He was careful not to lock his knees, having learned that one the hard way on the parade grounds. Serum or not, decreased blood flow to the brain got everyone and orthostatic syncope was a bitch. He flexed his toes last, glad the ground had been swept even if it meant he was slowly losing traction as more sweat gathered on the soles of his feet. 

Time was an issue. Not in the nerve damage and cramped muscles time would have been an issue for others, though a sip of water (or a few dozen) would have been welcome. Time was an issue because it created spacious breeding grounds for doubt. And doubt buzzed around Steve’s mind like annoying gnats he had no way of slapping away. 

The first part of it was the simplest, the most primal one that Steve could link to his childhood, to his life, to the fact that he was human. “_They’ve forgotten you_,” it whispered. “_You’ve been left behind, you’re alone, unmissed, unwanted_.” It was a voice he’d dealt with for most of a century, easy to squash and ignore usually. The rationale was easy to build. Someone at the Tower would notice his absence if he didn’t come back, or there would be an assemble call. There’d be search parties led by Tony rambling about cellphone locations and some sass from Clint. He’d never live it _down_, but the team would come for him. 

The second type was more insidious, laser-focused and sounded a lot like news clips from the hearings that had followed the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. It sounded like his own voice, in anger, like official channel gossip and debriefings. “_How can you trust the spy?_,” it asked. “_She’s trained for precisely this, for deception and treachery. Did she finally get a good enough price for you?_” It was harder to shut this line of thought down. He did trust Natasha, probably more than the rest of the team realized. Or, at least, more than they acknowledged to his face. He had little doubt that Clint and Tony had snarking and innuendo contests when he was out of range. 

Whatever her plan was, she probably had a reason for being gone so long. Steve wished he knew what it was. He didn’t mind playing bait, it was a tactic that kept working because humans were creatures of hubris in every decade. He just liked knowing what he was being dangled for. Natasha hadn’t said, and at the time he hadn’t been worried. She also had waved her casual “be right back” over her shoulder as she had walked away.

“Shit,” said Steve to the emptiness. What if something had happened to her? Natasha could handle herself but a lot of people were still incredibly angry at her for all sorts of reasons. She could have gotten jumped, or worse, and would be too proud to call the team for help. He had to get out and find her. 

He craned his neck, taking a good look at the rigging for the first time. Each end of the bar was held by two chains. The chains themselves were rigged to some hydraulic lift contraption, where catwalks crossed over what was once the production floor. There was no way he was getting the hydraulics to budge, not without the control rig and he had no idea where that was. But the chains had been clipped on with carabiners and at least one link was bound to be weaker if he caused enough stress. If not he could always pray for bad solder on the anchor points themselves. 

He pushed against the floor to get some movement, swaying back and forth as the chains chattered angrily above him. He lifted himself up with his arm, breathing through his teeth as the sudden strain of his wrists reminded him he had no good hold to do any of this. Arms trembling, he used the momentum of the swinging to bring up his legs, taking the effort away from his shoulders and into his abs and back muscles, which were good for more than display, thank you very much, Stark. He took a breath and on the exhale pushed his legs up, having rotated above the bar into a handstand of sorts, staring at the painted ground. He grunted and shifted, planning his course. A few swings around, gain more speed and then he’d have to pick a side and try to get the chains entangled. The hard drop so that his body weight could act as the stressor would suck, but he tried to tell himself it wouldn’t be as bad as the elevator dive back in DC. 

Noise made him pause. Footsteps, inside the building, followed by the dull thud of the closing door. Other movements too, high above him and on the wall, cartwheeling and impossible to follow through the echoes. 

“You better not be trying to do what I’m thinking you’re trying to do,” an amused voice said.

_Natasha_. 

“I was coming to rescue you,” Steve said as he lowered himself back to the ground, trying and failing to hide the wince as he did so. Above him the hydraulics hissed and grumbled, lowering the chains a few clicks worth. It was enough for him to get his feet planted more solidly and the relief was disproportionate. 

“Of course you were,” said Natasha, closing the space between them. She put her hand at the small of his back, petting twice in question before resting it there. She was warm and solid and _here_. Steve leaned into the touch in answer, he was ok. Sore and a bit annoyed if he was being honest, but they were still good. 

Confused sputter above their head, coming from the wall of all places, reminded Steve of the other sounds he’d heard and confirmed that they weren’t alone.

“Widow? What in the hell?”

“Happy birthday, girl, come and check out your present,” Natasha answered. She didn’t move away from Steve, as she would have under more normal circumstances. Steve was grateful. 

Gwen’s costume was a beacon against the far wall, easy to locate now that Steve was both expecting her and more grounded. She was crawling down the wall in small shuffling movements, as if she was expecting a trap. 

“For the record,” Gwen said, “when I told Widow I wanted Captain America on a silver platter for my birthday, I was joking.” 

“Oh, I knew I was forgetting something.” Natasha’s hand vanished from Steve’s back and he wondered what she was up to as a large bag unzipped. “Here we go. Be a dear now Steve and pull up your feet, nice and easy.” She touched his ankle and it was the easiest thing to lift them up, one at the time. Natasha slipped something beneath his feet as he did so, something solid and a bit cold.

Steve looked down and chuckled at his distorted reflection. “Where did you get that?”

“Mama Barton heirloom. Borrowed it from Clint and polished it up. I don’t think he knows it’s missing” 

“Ah. Right.” Steve looked back to Gwen, purposefully doing so through his lashes and cocking out a hip to the side, placing his feet one in front of the other to highlight all the curves he could. 

“Eeek,” said Gwen and for a moment her grip on the wall failed, and she landed on the floor in a flop of white and pink. “Wow,” said the pile of spider limbs. 

“Too much?” asked Steve quietly to Natasha. 

She shrugged and finger walked her way up his spine, then down again. “What can I say, it’s not every day I get to celebrate happy events with a подруга”. 

“Not many of those in the Red Room?” Steve regretted the question as soon as it had left his lips. It was a cruel wound to dig at.

“Not much laughter, no.” Natasha shook her head to chase away the ghosts. She raised her voice then, projecting to fill the space instead of keeping the wound close and intimate: “Aren’t you going to unwrap your present?” 

Gwen picked herself off the floor like someone pretending that she still had any dignity or credibility. She closed the space that separated them and tilted her head to look into Steve’s eyes. She was squinting, under the mask, and it made the fabric bunch and gather into wrinkles of folds. 

“Are you really ok with this?” she asked.

Steve nodded and smiled. The annoyance was fading so he hoped it read warm and reassuring, not too much like a snarl. In an ideal world, he would prefer to have this conversation with several more items of clothing and several fewer restraints. Not that his world had ever been ideal. “Tasha is good, but not ‘string me up and put me on display against my will’ good.”

“I _could_,” Natasha muttered. “Give me a handful of horse tranq darts and a small army, a week of planning and possibly get Barnes in on it, but it's not _impossible_.” 

“I’m here because I want to be, Gwen,” Steve continued as he ignored the affronted spluttering to his side. “But if you’re weirded out, or want to go, just say so. She’ll let me out and we can take you home, or go eat cake or any other celebration, or do nothing at all.” 

She didn’t answer right away and the mask hid enough of her face to make it hard to know what she was thinking.

“So,” she said at last, “what’s off-limit?”

Natasha laughed and retrieved the plate from beneath Steve with a quiet “Up” order. Steve grinned and pulled himself up until his shoulders were level with his wrists, crossing his ankles, just to hear Gwen gasp. 

“Don’t worry about it,” said Natasha. “I’ll let you know if you come anywhere near a danger zone.” 

Steve watched as the meaning sunk into Gwen’s mind, the words heard then analyzed before being understood. Her hand stilled mid-air, as she turned in a full-body needle scratch moment towards Natasha. 

“You’ll let me… you’re staying?”

“What, and miss the best show I’d get to catch anytime this week? Why would I do that?” 

“Unless,” Steve said carefully, “you want her to go.” With Gwen facing away from him the cowl hid even the faint chances of reading an expression off her. He could see the coiled tension in her stance, the tremors in her fingers. If they continued with _anything _he was going to have to say something about it, sooner than later.

“Is he always that sweet?” asked Gwen, and whatever answer Steve had been waiting for, that had not made the list.

“Always.” Natasha purred. She was walking away, out of Steve’s line of sight as she spoke. “He’s a good boy.” 

“He is also right here,” he said. “And would like just a bit of confirmation?” 

Fingers crossing the last inch of space answered for him, as Gwen was suddenly very much in his space. “I hang out with the kids, Cap. I’m not actually one of them. And pro-tip, ballet school? Lots of really bendy people who get really comfortable with having each other’s hands on, well, everything. It’s the first time I’d have a seasoned audience, though.” 

“Alright then,” Steve said with a chuckle. “But the mask—”

“Oh it’s coming off,” answered Gwen, joining actions to her words and unhooking the mask and cowl from her suit. She threw it behind her as she shook out her hair. “Ain’t no way I wasn’t getting a taste.” 

“Good.” Steve stretched out, puffing out his chest slightly to allow Gwen to pick where she wanted to touch next. Movement on the edge of his vision made him smirk, as Natasha settled in the chair she had brought out of who even knows where. She was very carefully positioned, far enough and to the side so that Gwen wouldn’t feel her intruding. Still visible for Steve, making sure he knew where his lifeline was. For all of her sharp edges, Natasha was also incredibly caring. She’d cut him if he said that out loud under most circumstances, but it didn’t make it any less true. 

Distraction is why he was startled when Gwen made up her mind. That and the fact that it really was unfair for someone to go from being flat-footed in front of him to vaulting above his head without any apparent effort or running start. Gwen twined her legs through the chains and lowered herself carefully, one hand trailing over Steve’s arm and the other exploring along his shoulders. 

He’d expected the touch to be sticky or maybe like the pull of suckers from an octopus (and no one was ever to know how he knew what those felt like and live to retell the tale), but it wasn’t. It didn’t feel like anything, in fact, only the impersonal texture of spandex and kevlar. Warmer than the air but too cold to be skin. Gwen’s lips burnt by contrast, or burned in Steve’s mind where she barely touched the skin. Here and there, random appearances as she wound herself around his torsos in ways he knew ought to be physically impossible. He was being surrounded and traced. From the soft gasps and coos, he would even say admired. But he wasn’t being _touched _and it wasn’t _fair_, not after all the waiting patiently he’d already done. 

He could be good. He could be stoic and wait. This was Gwen’s gift, she was allowed to do things her own way. Steve took a deep shuddering breath and tried to find his center as Gwen turned, somehow leveraging herself on the side of his left thigh, her breath warm against the crook of his neck as it ruffled through the short hair. The air rushed out of his lungs, through his treacherous vocal cords and out of his somehow slack lips and he _whined_. 

“Gloves off,” said Natasha. 

“Huh, what?” Gwen asked, pulling away and lifting herself to look over Steve’s head.

“Gloves. Off.” The edge of order was stronger in Natasha’s voice, though she hadn't increased the volume or changed her tone. It was an art, the way she spoke when she was in control. “Steve wants skin contact, but he won't speak up.”

“Oh! Oh sure!” 

Over the years, Steve had been witness to various levels of stripping, or stripped in front of people, or had others strip him. He’d been around casual nakedness in the tour with the dancing girls and in the trenches with soldiers. It was, however, the first time someone ever disrobed _on _him. He didn’t know if he liked it. 

Gwen was stretching and twisting, one hand holding onto his ass either as support or just opportunistic, he couldn’t tell, as she peeled the costume off her limbs. It felt awkward and alien but every time she shifted she was softer and warmer and the feeling of it was stealing his breath away. Skin on skin was better than any silks and satins and poly blended soft things. Steve was pretty sure that given half a chance he could luxuriate like a cat against other people’s skin, just revelling in the serum-augmented sensitivity of his nerves, feeling the chase of goosebumps on himself and them, the tickle of hair and duvet, the wetness of sweat and tremors of pulse. Feeling all the life behind the touches, so much life after so many years without. 

“Uh uh. You keep those,” Nathasha said and Steve’s eyes snapped open. Gwen was, somehow, hanging from his arm like a kid hanging from a tree and she had been messing with the delicate assembly of the web-shooters on her wrists. One of her legs was half hooked around his waist, pressing them side to side everywhere she could reach. Ok. The flexibility thing was growing on him.

“Really?” Gwen asked, pausing in her movement and looking up at Natasha. 

Steve licked his lips. “She has a plan. ‘Tasha is good with these kinds of plans.” 

“_These_ kind of plans?” Natasha asked, a smile twitching at her lips and sarcasm coating the words like honey.

“Well. The tally in the field isn’t really in your favour, so…”

“That mouth on you Rogers, sometimes…” Natasha laughed. “Let’s see if we can put it to better uses.” 

“Alright, you got my attention,” said Gwen. “Run it for me, from the top.” 

Natasha had excellent ideas. 

Steve dug his thumb into Gwen’s knees, squeezing as best he could and rubbing circles in the skin there, the only spot he could reach. Natasha had directed Gwen with clipped words and commands, using terms that sounded familiar to Steve’s ears but the exact meaning escaped him. The first part, the easier part, had been to use the spreader bar as an anchor as Natasha had adjusted the height until it was just right. Steve grinned at himself, listening to the way her breath hitched and caught in her throat. Her thighs were trembling now, her arms probably tiring, super strength or not. He was starting to figure out what she liked most, licking and suckling. Every so often Nat would snap her fingers and he’d back up, waiting for the signal to start again. Waiting for Gwen to resume her position, back arched and arms straight behind her, holding the silk lines that took her weight tight. She had been allowed to make her head fall back, ruining the line just a bit, as a small mercy.

Natasha had excellent ideas but she was also cruel. 

Gwen bucked her hip, chasing after the pressure of Steve’s tongue as he parted her folds with broad licks. It wasn't much of a movement, an animal reflex instinct-driven at best. It was just enough to earn a signal and Steve pulled back his head, dropping sticky kisses along her inner thigh.

“Not fair,” Gwen gasped, seeking air in great gaps and trying to go still again. She was vibrating now, like a badly calibrated dynamo that threatened to tear itself apart.

“You _could _forfeit,” Nat said. “You know, as a concept.” 

Steve bit at her when Gwen didn’t answer, careful not to leave marks but hard enough to make her yelp and jostle, losing her position altogether.

“Yeah, alright, alright. What’s the cost of doing that.”

“Good _girl_,” Natasha purred. “So smart. I was thinking we could free Steve’s very eager not-so-little soldier and see how well his control holds. A little payback.” 

“Ummm, I like that.” Gwen let go of the webbing and the line drifted lazily, wrapping around Steve on the right side and getting tangled with the chains on the left. The sensation was strange: wet and dry, like cooked pasta and cooling chitauri goo all at once. Gwen didn’t wait for him to decide if he liked it or not, flowing backward and downward until she flipped all the way around into a slow-motion gymnastic display of too many bendy joints. She landed in a crouch, feet tucked underneath her and looking up at Steve with a look that, for a second, made him want to reconsider. 

Only for a second, because now that he was paying attention, he very much did want his dick freed from the confines of his jeans. The desire doubled as Gwen finger walked her way up his leg, sending pressure and vibration ahead like a signal along the denim. She pulled the zipper down slowly, tooth by tooth until Steve couldn’t help but hiss in frustration. 

Then the zipper was open as the jeans were going, tugged off his hips hard enough that some of the seams cracked and screamed in protest. Steve didn’t have time to grieve for the sacrifice as warm wet heat surrounded him. After a few panting breaths he got himself under control, careful to still his hips, holding the position. The sun had shifted behind him, sliding off his back and down to his ass, exposed now and with every nerve afire. 

He could feel Natasha’s eyes on him, as certainly as he could feel the warmth of Gwen’s hands and the amazing thing she did with her tongue. She was licking and swirling around him like an ice cream cone before diving back down. This was a practiced move. Beautifully practiced. Within a minute he was panting, shame and pride burning away like flash paper, leaving behind a delirious cocktail of endorphins and pure stubbornness. He’d always been too stubborn for his own good. 

One of Gwen’s hands moved, pressing up against his balls and on the delicate skin behind it. His mind supplied a thousand tiny additional touches, the hairs and hooks of spider legs he knew weren’t there but had sketched in detail when he’d gone to the American Museum of Natural History. Gwen pulled back, lightly dragging her teeth along the skin before sealing her lips around the head of his cock, tongue pressed wet and warm along the ridge. Her fingers pressed up firmer, almost but not quite reaching the edge of his hole. All distractions fled his mind, all careful breathing and control, as his knees buckled and he fell down. The chains and rig held his weight, angrily clanking above in a winning cheer.

“Point, team spider,” said Natasha with a chuckle as she got up and walked to Steve. The hydraulics hissed to life, lowering him to the floor until he was kneeling. She released the cuffs and gently lowered his arms, rubbing at the joint to ease the ache. Not take it away, she knew him too well, but ease the burn of the transition. One did not get beaten in every back alley of Brooklyn, as Steve did in his youth, without having a masochistic streak.

“What do I win?” asked Gwen, stretching her jaw and rubbing over the joint in an almost reflexive action. She was sitting down now, feet tucked up past her knees in a relaxed lotus form. Steve took the chance to drink in the sight. Sweat and goosebumps were chasing each other on her skin, up her arms and down the side of her breast. Beads pooled down her stomach and joined the intimately familiar wet mess between her legs. 

Natasha paused, hand stilling on Steve’s shoulder. He could see her at the side of his vision, head tilted. Calculating. Maddeningly still composed and fully dressed. “Pretty much anything you want, I’d say.” She was testing grounds, prodding to know where the boundary was.

“Wall,” said Steve, though he barely heard himself over the wet ragged draw of his breath. He didn't want to wait, not anymore. “I wanna pin her to that wall.”

Natasha hummed, carding her fingers through Steve’s hair, making the strands messy and sticking out at all angles. “I like the sound of that. What do you think, want to be pressed between a rock and a _hard _body, and have Cap fuck you senseless?”

“I can have someone take me up against a wall and not want to send me through it? Sweet!”

"I mean, he _could _send you through it,” Natasha said with a dismissive shrug, “but the construction around here is fairly sturdy."

Gwen laughed, throwing her head back and rocking with the movement. “Well come on. I’m not getting any younger.” 

Nathasha’s hand fell away from Steve’s back as she took a step to the side. Steve grinned and lowered his hands to the ground. He waited for Gwen to meet his gaze, for her laughter to catch on the edge of her lips, for her eyes to widen a bit. The first movement got him off the ground, stepping out of his jeans on the first step forward as he swept her up. She was a slight thing, barely any heavier than the punching bags he’d work through on any given morning. 

He cushioned the blow, a bit. Enough to drive air from her lungs in a huff, not enough to bruise any ribs or rattle the cinder blocks. Not that he gave her time to reclaim that breath, slotting a thigh between her legs in order to free one of his hands, mouth claiming the side of her neck and climbing to her lips in wet kisses. The skin of her breast was as soft as he had hoped, as he cupped his hand over, rolling the palm over the hardened nub of the nipple. 

“Are you going to fuck me?” Gwen asked when he backed away for a breath, rolling her hips to drive her point. “Or just paw at me?”

A sharp whistle cut out Steven’s answer and something solid flew by his head, sharp-edged and metallic. He looked over his shoulder to meet Tasha's amused eyebrow wiggle and growled. If he could have he would have aimed for a snarl, but Steve knew he wasn’t threatening to anyone, flying too high on endorphins. Gwen giggled as if reading his thoughts so he turned back to her. 

“The whole strip? Overkill much?” Gwen was shaking the strip of condoms, letting them unfold in an accordion of safe sex principle.

“I have no misplaced faith in Steve’s stamina,” Nat answered. “Better to plan ahead.”

Gwen rolled her eyes, then winked at Steve. “Between the two of you, I’m sure we could assemble a great Eagle scout.” She webbed the strip to Steve’s chest, letting them dangle. Deft fingers ripped away the lowest squares, then the empty foil packet was glued an inch away from the strip. “My hero, chest glistening with medals.” 

Her hand groped blindly, fingers teasing as she slid down his chest and traced along the skin there. Steve covered her hand in his, prying her fingers apart to get at the rubber. It was slick between his fingers and he almost dropped it when she let go. He grabbed her wrist with his other hand, pinning both of them above her head with ease. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, trying to press him closer. Steve leaned to kiss her again, slipping his tongue easily into her welcoming mouth. The distraction was all he needed to pull his hips back a few inches. There were good party tricks and there was wrapping up one-handed and without looking. Steve was rather proud of it.

He stroked himself a few times, waiting for Gwen to realize what he was up to. When she tried to complain he lined himself up and pressed, exactly as slow as he wanted. He let go of her hands to hold her hips, pinning her against the wall. She gasped and arched her back, but there was no place for her to go, trapped. He let go of her mouth so she could tell him to stop if he wanted, dropping kisses and licks along her ears and down her neck. If she did try to speak there were very few words in it. He paused, merciful, when he was burrowed into her to the hilt. The warmth and pressure all around him were maddening, tearing at the edges of his control. But he was on a mission and he wasn’t gonna ruin a perfect record by failing now. 

The nervousness drained out of Gwen and gave way to a different vibration, and he moved.

He moved slow at first, grinding and rolling his hips, changing the angle and movement but keeping the rhythm smooth and consistent. Her hands flew all over him, grabbing and pinched, nails digging into his back but he didn’t relent. He kept her hips absolutely immobile. 

“Stop... Teasing.” Gwen dragged the words out, stringing the syllables together like a popcorn garland around a Christmas tree, discombobulated and adorable. 

“If you say so.” 

He stopped teasing. He pumped into her with snaps of his hips, letting the wet flesh on flesh sounds echo around them. He pressed her against him, face buried in her hair and forehead against the wall, her breath hot on his neck as she panted. He could feel her tensing and pulling him in, could feel the mortar loosening behind her, breathing in the dust. 

Gwen folded her left leg behind her, feet flat against the wall, and pulled herself up to adjust the angle. Her right arm was above her head, fingers extended into claws to help with the support. She was trembling now, with weak cries being punched out of her, eyes closed and scrunched tight. He would have worried that he was hurting her, if her left hand didn’t grab his ass, urging him for more. He was happy to oblige, grinding filthily with each thrust. 

Her orgasm unwound itself through her as quick and as strong as she ever did anything. Steve felt her spasm against him as she let out a groaning moan. He had the briefest of worries about the block behind her spine that was now definitely loose, but it fled his mind without a trace as she went limp in his arms. She wrapped her legs back around his waist when he tried to pull away, slitting one eye open in challenge. 

Steve didn’t last long after that, the exhaustion of waiting finally catching up to his aching muscles. He rutted into the wet heat of her, stuttering and hiccuping towards his own orgasm.

“Now,” Natasha whispered and the world went blank, pleasure ripping through his veins and escaping in a scream.

The floor should have been colder. It was hard and not particularly comfortable, but it should have been colder. Steve shook his head and looked around, spotting the infrared heaters set up some distance away. The clacking sound of heels let him know where Natasha was, moving somewhere beyond the relative dimness left by the setting sun. She was coming back next to him with a duffel bag on her shoulder and a sports drink in her hand.

“I don’t remember sitting down,” he said.

“I wouldn’t call it sitting,” she answered, pressing the bottle into his hand. “Good thing girly can catch herself. I brought you a change of clothes.”

Steve downed half of the bottle and shook his head. “I’m sticky. Don’t wanna ruin them.” He pulled at the empty condom wrapper on his chest, tearing the webbing. “Does this stuff wash off?”

“I have dissolver,” said Gwen. She was sitting next to him, wrapped in a blanket that Steve knew for a fact was usually in Tony’s penthouse. “I’ll get it off you.” 

He hummed and nodded then gestured for Natasha to give him the protein bar he knew was coming. He was famished, now that he was paying attention.

Gwen giggled, then dissolved into fits of hysterics, gasping for breath and tears filling her eyes. “Wow, “ she said when she regained control. “You know I’m wondering what’s gonna top this next year.”

Steve looked up at Natasha and met her eyes, conversing silently and ending on a shrug. “Pub crawl,” he said.

“Isn’t that what’s customary for twenty-first birthdays in America?” Natasha added, falsely innocent. 

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously though, don't leave restrained people alone for extended periods of time. Steve's a super soldier, but Natasha should feel bad about it nonetheless. Stay safe, make sure people have quick releases and don't feel abandoned. Nobody needs the nerve damage and broken trust.


End file.
